Yesterday did not go as I planned. I was supposed to stay in the chair and write all day. But, the kids were out of school for half a day (who thought this was a good idea?) and then their friends came over (which I normally love because they bring laughter, silliness and I get a crazy thrill out of feeding them) and before I knew it I couldn’t get anything creative accomplished. So, I WD-40-ed the pruning sheers and did, what I should have done Valentine’s weekend, some serious whackage to the rose bushes. I’ll confess now so as not to confuse anyone later–I’m not a gardener. I have the soul of a gardener, not the thumbs of one. Though I love to look out on blooming plants and healthy grasses, I choke on the hard work. Rose bushes are my particular nemesis. The ones that taunt me, about nine old varieties that were in the garden when we bought the house, grow tall and have thorns that could wound innocent bystanders. Dilligent, at least at first, I reserached the care and nutrition of rose bushes and have tried, over the last five years, to be a good steward of the sweet-smelling shrubs. No longer. The gloves are off. I’ve been poked, stabbed and otherwise assaulted by thorns of weapon dimensions. I’m taking the tough-love approach from here on out. With sheers in hand I pruned those bushes down to the lower extremities. And not only did I take significant footage from these branches, I had to construct my own disposal methods. These prickly reeds resist all efforts to slide into trash bags. So, what looks like s simple, loving procedure on gardening shows and in books, is really, for me anyway, nothing short of pre-historic surgery. Despite my brutality, I do hope they survive. I’m rather fond of the blooms in spring.